


permanent fixtures

by thefray



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Popular Louis, Underage Drinking, harry is a writer, its all very cute, louis is a physics nerd, theyre american bc i said so, theyre both nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 20:35:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9089737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefray/pseuds/thefray
Summary: Louis is different. And, if you ask Harry, every subtle change in the energy of the neighborhood can be tied back to Louis.
 or, neighbors au





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theseblueskies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseblueskies/gifts).



> a few things before we begin  
> 1\. my lovely recipient requested a neighbors au. I was told to basically go crazy with it, so i did, and this was the result. enjoy !!  
> 2\. in light of Louis' mother's passing, i left the tomlinson family out of this story because i felt it would be distasteful (to say the least) and insensitive  
> 3\. this is set in southern california because im from southern california so when i write, colloquial california language comes naturally to me. Louis is committed to caltech and Harry is committed to USC just bc  
> 4\. I am turning this in sosososo late and as a result it is unbeta'd and there are a few plotholes. I know theyre there, and i am sorry that i couldn't fix them
> 
> other than that enjoy!!

Harry remembers the changing of the seasons the year the Tomlinsons moved in. He remembers that the quiet widow down the street remarried, and became stepmother to three kids that hosted loud birthday parties and stayed out late playing flashlight tag in the summer. He remembers the young man who runs a pet-sitting service moving in across the way, remembers the excitement every time he would take the dogs out for an afternoon walk and the neighborhood children would flock to say hello. 

But mostly he remembers Louis. He remembers the lawn that was once manicured to perfection, being littered with toys and baby trinkets that hadn't quite made their way inside. He remembers infants crying and he remembers afternoon swimming and he remembers being invited to Louis’ birthday party that December. But even at seven years old, Harry understood that it was just a formality, so he brought the present over and ate some pizza, but decided to leave soon thereafter. Louis friends were different. Louis is different. And, if you ask Harry, every subtle change in the energy of the neighborhood can be tied back to Louis. 

//

Harry processes the world in words, colors, and feelings. He's soft spoken and carries a journal with him everywhere he goes. He doesn't play a sport, and he avoids school-sanctioned functions when he can. Perhaps that's where the disconnect lies.

Louis is, as far as Harry is concerned, enigmatic.

Louis processes the world in numbers, formulas, and structures. He's brash, and funny, and well-liked. He’s going to Caltech to study aerospace engineering. He's the president of the senior class cabinet. He's a starting varsity soccer player, and he's all that Harry wants.

The Tomlinsons still live next door.

Harry was there the night Louis threw his first party, watching through the living room window as people arrived in waves, and left in a haze of liquor. Harry was there the night Louis broke up with his first long-term girlfriend. It had been a nasty fight, and Harry wanted nothing more than to curb Louis' tears as he cried in the aftermath. Harry had been there last month, when Louis was building his project for the robotics team, waiting up for him until the early hours of the morning, when the light of his bedroom window would shut off, and the both of them would retire for the night. 

He fell in love through a bedroom window, and he's been falling ever since.

// 

The ebb and flow of energy turns on its head one Tuesday in may. It's nearing dark and Harry is doing his homework, wearing sweats and a t-shirt, hair still gelled and glasses still resting on his nose, when there's a knock on the door. 

Harry gets up from the kitchen table to answer, assuming that his elderly neighbor has come to request his cat-sitting services yet again.

It’s not Mrs. Fitzpatrick from four doors down.

It's Louis.

"Hey, Harry," he says, offering an easy smile.

Harry's eyes widen and he flounders for a moment. 

Not once in the twelve years since he moved in has Louis come over. Not when his mom remarried and had the small wedding reception in the backyard. Not when they threw a going-away party for Gemma before she left for Harvard. Not when Harry gave him an invitation to his fifteenth birthday party.

(That one had been painful. He hadn't planned a huge ordeal of a party; Just a small get together with his family and some childhood friends, and Louis. He had handed him the little envelope in the hallway at school with a bashful smile. Louis had glanced around at his friends before making a hasty grab for the envelope and muttering, "Thanks, Harry. I'll see what I can do."  
He had never shown up, and Harry had spent the evening waiting and waiting for an arrival that never came.)

“Um, hi Louis," Harry says as he makes a little waving motion. 

"Hey, is it okay if I come in?" Louis asks, eyebrows raised and a whisper of a smile gracing his lips.

"Oh, um, sure. If you'd like," Harry mutters, cheeks flushing.

Harry leads them through the foyer and into the living room. “You can have a seat. On the couch or the chair, it doesn't matter. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No that's alright. Thanks, Harry.”

They sit in uneasy silence for a few moments, Louis not offering any explanation of his visit, and Harry too unnerved to inquire.

“So,” Louis began, breaking the tense quiet. “We have AP English together…” he trails off, as if Harry were unaware that they have had that class together all year (he is aware, painfully so). 

Harry nods, not trusting himself to speak. 

“And, like, you’re a great writer. You read your argument paper to the class last month and it was really great, and the thing is that I have a C- in that class right now, and he just assigned that memoir, right? Well if I don't do well on it then I risk failing English, and if I fail a class Caltech could rescind my acceptance, and it's kind of my dream school. So, my question is: could you help me write this paper?”

Harry’s innards are flipping, his head spinning, and his consciousness is chanting _say no, say no, say no._ He knows it can only bring him harm in the end. Pining can end only in heartbreak, Harry knows this for certain.

“No, yeah, I can do that,” Harry responds. “For sure.” 

_Now you’ve done it Harry._

“Seriously?” Louis asks, smiling like the fucking sun. Harry is so done for.

“Yeah, I’d love to help.”

_Stop talking, Harry._

Louis gets up off the couch and starts working his way towards the door. “Thanks so much, man, this is gonna be such a big help. I owe you one. Can I come over again tomorrow so we can get started?”

“Sure,” Harry responds, working through the shock. 

“Awesome, thanks again. I’ll see you then,” he says as he shuts the door behind him, leaving Harry behind in the stillness and the silence.

_Well, shit._

//

Louis makes good on his request to return the following afternoon. Harry may have _(definitely)_ worn his favorite sweater vest, a worn-down old olive green thing that brings out his eyes and rests comfortably on his shoulders, and may have lightly _(lightly)_ spritzed his nice cologne. 

The setting sun finds them at Harry’s kitchen table, working through the rough beginnings of Louis’ memoir. 

“It’s just not happening,” Louis tries to explain, growing more distressed by the minute. 

“It doesn't have to happen all at once, Lou,” Harry says in a bleary attempt at consolation. He stays silent for a moment, contemplating his words. “What is it that you like about physics and all that engineering stuff so much?”

“There’s always somewhere to go. Every problem has an answer. Even if the answer is that there is no answer, it's all real, and there's always a next step until you reach a solution.”

“So, correct me if I’m wrong, but you don't like writing because there’s not a concrete way to do it? There's no algorithm?”

Louis considers this for a moment before responding, “Yeah, I suppose that is my problem with writing.”

“Well, I want you to try something,” Harry says. “Let's, you and I both, just write, for ten minutes. No boundaries. No thinking. Just write with no clear direction or correlation. Think of one thing— a place, a person, an experience—just one. Let your mind sit there, and just write.”

Louis nods, picking up his pencil. “Yeah, we can do that.”

Harry smiles, cheeks dimpling and eyes crinkling at the corners. “Okay. I’m gonna set a timer, alright?”

“Yeah, that's okay.”

“Okay. You can get started. Don't think, yeah? Just write.”

They sit in silence for ten minutes, burning ideas into paper. Harry steals sly glances at Louis, capturing the essence of the dim kitchen lights reflecting off of his cheekbones, and the soft ripples his teeth make as they press into his bottom lip as he scribbles over the paper  
.  
The timer goes off and they both put their final thoughts down on paper. Louis looks at Harry, prompting an explanation.

“Okay, so you were halfway right about there being no algorithm to writing. Initially, there is no concrete way to go about putting words down on paper that will give you the ‘correct’ result,” Harry explains, making air quotes. “But there are ways to go about editing something you’ve written that will, with a decent degree of certainty, make your writing better.”

“Alright, what are they then?” Louis implores, looking halfway confused, and halfway intrigued.

“Well, the easiest one is to go through your entire paper and cross out every single adverb.”

“Why?” Louis asks. “What's the problem with adverbs? I use adverbs every day.”

“The trouble with adverbs doesn't lie in speech. Adverbs are actually quite effective in speech because the intonation of your voice can imply meaning and emphasis where necessary,” Harry says. “However, in truth, adverbs have little to contribute to style when it comes to writing, and taking them out will make your piece that much more concise and meaningful.”

“So I just, cross them all out?” Louis asks.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Okay,” Louis says, a small smile picking up the corners of his lips as he turns to his paper. 

He takes his time considering each sentence, making crosses through words on occasion, his smile staying steadfast on his cheeks. 

“I’m done,” he says, turning to Harry to ask for the next step. 

“Just read through it one more time, and see how the exclusion of the adverbs makes it that much cleaner.”

Louis does so, his smile growing, his eyes mirthful and soft.

“It reads a little bit nicer this way, yeah?” Harry asks.

“Yeah, it does,” Louis responds. “Thanks, Harry.”

Harry wants to make him smile like that, that radiant smile with hints of pride, every day for the rest of his life.

//

After that day, they fall into step. Louis comes over in the evening, smelling clean from a post-practice shower, and they write, and edit, and write some more. 

Some nights, Harry cooks them dinner. Louis will sit at the table, pretending to write, when in truth they're making conversation the entire time; laughing, sharing, and (in Harry’s case, anyway) falling deeper in love. 

Louis tells him how scared he is to attend Caltech, his fears of inadequacy in a school with such close connections to NASA. Harry knows he’ll be great — knows that he has potential to take the human race closer to the sun, the moon, and the stars — but says nothing, just listens to Louis and smiles a soft and fond smile. 

Harry tells Louis how excited he is to attend USC in the fall, how enthralled he is to have access to the best communications program in the country. He tells Louis his best kept ambitions. His ideas about his desire to double major, how he wants to be a teacher, or a screenwriter, or even a novelist. At his kitchen table he shares things with Louis he’s never shared with another human soul. 

They don't talk at school, but Harry is okay with that. Their evenings together, writing, talking, and learning are enough.

Harry keeps falling.

//

Some two weeks into their primitive endeavor, Louis seeks Harry out in the library. 

Harry has been scribbling reckless thoughts into his little notebook, brief snapshots of what he’s taken to calling The Louis Phenomenon. Haphazard phrases and reflections of the Louis he knows, and the Louis he wants to know. He’s been capturing every daring thought that traipsed through his consciousness when Louis approaches.

He pulls a chair out from the table, startling Harry as he takes a seat. 

“Hiya,” he says, grinning. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is slightly askew, and Harry thinks he’s perfect. “I like your sweater.”

Harry had gone with a deep purple vest, one that he’s worn countless times. It's old and raggedy, nothing to write home about, but it's one of Harry's favorites and he feels touched that Louis took the time to compliment him on it. 

“Thanks, Louis,” Harry says. He’s beginning to think he’ll never be able to talk to Louis without smiling like a creep or blushing like a little kid. 

“So I was thinking,” Louis begins, tiny hints of mischief teasing every feature of his face, “it’s a Friday and we’ve been working just about nonstop for over two weeks now. And the first draft of my memoir is done, so all I really need to do is go through my edits and the paper isn't due for another week. So, what I’m really asking is for the night off.”

Harry feels an irrational pang of hurt and jealousy.

_Harry don't be stupid. You’ve spent every day together for two weeks now of course he deserves a day off. It's not about you._

“I mean, yeah of course we can take tonight off. You deserve it, you’ve worked really hard,” Harry says with a soft smile.

“Thanks,” Louis says, beaming with subtle pride. “But there's a part two to my question. My house is gonna be empty for once and it's Harry Potter Weekend, so I was thinking that you should come over on our night off and we can order some pizza and, you know, watch Harry Potter.”

Harry is so taken aback that he almost forgets to respond. Almost.

“Yeah, yeah, I would love that. I’ll be there.”

Louis smiles that gorgeous smile, the one that makes Harry weak in the knees, and says, “Perfect. The Sorcerer’s Stone starts at eight.” 

//

Harry walks next door to Louis’ at a quarter til eight, wearing his comfiest sweats and a USC sweatshirt. He had washed his hair, leaving it to dry into little ringlets. He still wears his glasses (as he does want to _watch_ the movie), and he brings a fresh-baked batch of snickerdoodles (which he did _not_ overhear Louis say was his favorite type of cookie. absolutely not) and a nearly-full bottle of fireball that had been pushed to the back of his mother’s liquor cabinet and forgotten about. 

Louis answers the door in similar sweats and a t-shirt. He smiles and informs Harry that the pizza should be arriving soon.

Harry holds up the tray of cookies in his right hand and the fireball in the left, giving a shy grin as he says, “I come bearing gifts.”

Louis raises his eyebrow and smirks, ushering Harry inside. “Harry Styles I did not expect this, you absolute rebel.”

Harry shrugs but offers no explanation, following Louis into the living room. 

“So what were you planning to do with that?” Louis asks, still smirking up at Harry from the couch.

Harry sets the cookies and the bottle down on the coffee table and takes a seat on the couch. “I dunno, my mom got it as a gift once but she loathes fireball and I like the taste so I thought I would bring it over, just in case.”

Louis looks as though he’s about to say something, but the doorbell rings and he gets up to go retrieve the pizza. He comes back, sets the pizza on the coffee table and turns the TV on just as The Sorcerer’s Stone begins. They sit in silence, watching the film and eating their pizza, each offering occasional commentary (they have an in-depth conversation about the gross misrepresentation of the Slytherin house, and Harry thinks he could be in love).

During a commercial break halfway through the movie, the pizza long gone and the fireball sitting helpless on the coffee table, Louis turns to Harry and asks “Would you like to go up to my room? I have a TV up there and, I don't like the brag but I have the comfiest bed in all of Southern California.”

Harry can feel subtle energy thrumming beneath his skin. The bedroom across from his. The bedroom he’s only seen in snapshots through a meager little window. He nods his head, grabs the bottle of fireball, and follows Louis up the stairs, feeling nervous and excited and nauseous.

Louis plops down on his bed, the side that's pushed up against the wall, and nods to Harry, a silent permission to lay down. Harry sets the fireball down on the bedside table and finds cautious comfort on the bed, a safe distance away from Louis. They're not touching, but Louis’ scent lingers on the sheets, and that's all Harry needs. 

Louis turns on the small television in the corner and leans over Harry to grab the fireball off of the little table. 

“So what do you propose we do with this? I have some soda downstairs we can mix it with?”

Harry considers for a moment before answering, “I usually just drink it straight. I like the taste.”

Louis smirks and turns the cap. “As you like it. Would you care to do the honors then?”

Harry nods and grabs the bottle, taking a long drink, before passing it back to Louis. “Your turn,” he whispers.

Louis takes a lengthy swig and passes it back to Harry. They continue on for some time, passing the bottle back and forth. In the background, Harry, Ron, and Hermione provide the white noise soundtrack to hushed conversations about nothing. 

They’ve reached a steady level of tipsy when Louis asks threads his fingers through Harry’s hair.

Harry’s eyes go hooded and his lips part just the slightest bit, and he has to restrain himself from whimpering. 

“You know,” Louis says, “I haven't seen your hair curly like this since we were kids.” 

Harry blinks, eyelids fluttering soft and slow. He brings himself back down to earth and responds, “Yeah I tend to keep it done when I’m not home.”

Louis has a half-smirk, half-grin on his face as he says “I, for one, love it like this.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, his voice gone squeaky.

Louis moves his body closer, the space between them energized and unwavering. His hand moves from the top of Harry’s head to play with the baby hairs and the bar of his neck. 

Louis leans in, but stops short of Harry’s lips. The air is static.

“May I kiss you?”

The breath catches in Harry’s throat.

He whispers a soft, “Yes.”

Louis brings their lips together. It's tentative, and soft, and Louis’ lips taste like fireball, but Harry can't suppress the feeling running up and down his spine. He can't deny the tingle Harry feels in his fingertips as he wraps his arms around Louis waist, and brings their lips together again and again. 

Louis pulls away, a little grin accompanying the soft glint in his eyes. 

Louis lays down next to Harry, watching him, wordless until he does the same.

Louis pulls the covers up around them and settles into his pillow.

“Louis, I—”

“Sleep,” Louis interrupts. “It's time to sleep.”

Harry nods, and closes his eyes. He sets his glasses on the window sill, and wills himself to sleep.

//

Harry wakes up the next morning feeling sated and warm. His limbs feel loose, and there's a body curled into his chest, tickling his chin with fluffy hair, and breathing soft little breaths against his collarbones. 

Harry puts on his glasses and takes a moment to study the room before Louis wakes up, takes a moment to capture his surroundings so he can later put them down in words.

There's a messy desk in the opposite corner, and clothes and shoes strewn over the floor. The TV is still on, The Chamber of Secrets supplying background noise. That same window that cast moonlight over the two of them last night, the window through which Harry fell in love, now bathes them in sunlight. 

That's where Louis belongs, Harry thinks, illuminated by the soft glow of sunlight. 

As Louis begins to stir, his eyes flutter open softly.

_One day, I’m gonna kiss every inch of your face, starting with your eyelids_.

“Good morning,” Harry whispers. 

Louis sits up, rubbing his eyes as they adjust to the morning light. 

“Hey, Harry,” he says. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and gets up. He looks around the room for a few minutes, avoiding eye contact. 

After a few minutes he finds a pair of slippers and puts them on. He’s about to cross the threshold out of the room when he says, “I’ll see you on Monday, yeah? My paper needs some edits before the Friday deadline.” 

He doesn't wait for a response before leaving the room. 

Harry waits for a few minutes in hopes that he will come back, but when he hears the shower running down the hall, he decides that I would be best if he just went home while he still has some dignity. 

He leaves what's left of the fireball and trudges home, despondent and dreary. 

He steps through the door and takes off his shoes. He goes upstairs to brush his teeth, trying to get the taste of stale fireball and Louis from his mouth. 

He makes his way to his room. He stops and spares a moment to glance through the window. Louis is there, in only a pair of sweatpants. His back is turned to Harry, he’s rifling through his closet and his hair is wet.

Harry rushes over to the window and pulls the curtains shut. His breaths are heavy as he picks up his tattered old notebook, the one he reserves for Louis. He sits down on his bed, opens up to a fresh page, and lets the maelstrom flow. He scribbles onto the page, not thinking, just feeling. He releases the pain, and burns it into paper. He’s never known how to process emotion in real time, but now, as he plunges into catharsis, he loses himself. He can’t tell when he starts crying, but he’s not looking at the page anymore, just making useless scratches of pen on paper.

The thing is that Louis had been so far removed from the internal workings of Harry’s life, but at the same time, he had been so permanent. Louis had been there the whole time, and Harry had been okay with the two of them living in different timelines so long as he could still watch through the bedroom window. But now he had met Louis, had tasted him, and the idea that it meant nothing to Louis isn’t something he can handle. He sets the notebook and pen down on the bedside table, and curls up, crying into the pillow, helpless. He falls into a restless sleep, hoping for some brief reprieve of the weight in his chest.

//

Harry wakes up again at when it’s nearing dark. He makes his way downstairs to make something to eat. His eyes feel puffy, like he couldn’t open them all the way if he tried his hardest, and his throat feels raw. He stares at the pantry for what feels like years before he gives up and makes a bagel and a cup of tea.

He settles on the couch and turns on the TV. The first channel is playing The Goblet of Fire, but he changes the channel, flicking through until he leaves it on Forrest Gump. So Harry eats his bagel and wallows in self-pity while Forrest and Jenny reunite in the Lincoln Memorial fountain. 

It’s not until Forrest buys the shrimping boat that Harry caves and pulls out his phone.

The phone rings until Harry is scared that it will default to the answering machine, when somebody answers.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Harry? Did you know that it’s three in the morning in Oslo? I was asleep.”

“I’m sorry mom, I just really needed to talk to you,” Harry says, running his fingers through his unbrushed hair.

His mom stays silent for a moment, sensing the gravity in Harry’s voice. “What’s up, buttercup?”

Harry lets out a breathless laugh, replying, “Nothing, really, I just miss you. I want to hear your voice.”

“I know that’s not true, Harry,” his mom says. “When I’m away, you always make sure to call at a time that is convenient for us both. So what is it that’s bothering you?”

Harry takes a deep breath, “You know how, just before you left, I started tutoring Louis from next door?”

His mom makes a sound of acknowledgment, prompting him to continue.

“Well I was at this house, and I just found out that I had some feelings for him that aren’t reciprocated. That’s all. It’s not a big deal, really.”

His mother makes a sympathetic noise. “That is a toughie isn’t it? Well babe, sometimes these things just have to work out in real time. I know you, love. I know how you work with your plot diagrams, and your fix-ups. I know that everything with you is a before and an after, but you need to let this play out on its own.”

Harry sighs, “Yeah, I think I knew that. I just needed to hear it from you. Thanks for that, mom. When do you come home?”

“Two more weeks, love. Now how about we hang up and we both get some sleep, alright? Call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll see you, mom. Love you and miss you.”

“Love you too, babe. Don’t dwell too much, alright? You’ll only give yourself a headache.”

//

Sunday passes by in a blur of words and feelings. Harry doesn’t leave the couch, content with his notebook and pen.

 _You’ll talk to him tomorrow._  
He repeats it like a mantra, reminding himself that Friday wasn’t the end.  
_You can talk to him tomorrow, Harry._

//

Louis never shows up on Monday, Harry tries to forget about it. 

//

Louis does show up for their sessions, on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday as the two of them mold his memoir to perfection. They don’t talk about it. Their conversations are awkward, stilted, and clinical, but Harry tries to ignore it. Louis still won’t let Harry read his memoir, but he assures him that it’s getting to where he wants it, and for Harry, that’s enough.

By English class on Friday, Harry is relieved to not have to deal with their sessions anymore. He feels tired, and tetchy, and sick of having to pretend that nothing is wrong.

When Louis approaches Harry after English, their last class of the day, Harry has half a mind to tell him to go away, that he doesn’t want to hear what he has to say, but the other half of his mind tells him that would be childish and mean, so he bites to bullet and stays in his place as Louis walks up to him.

“Hi, Harry,” he says, a sheepish smile gracing his lips.

“Hello,” Harry says, trying his best to be passive.

Louis holds up a slip of paper and says, “So, since you did such a great job of helping me edit my memoir, I was hoping you could help me edit this, as well. It’s quite, er, rough around the edges. Lots of adverbs.”

Harry takes the slip of paper, tentative and wary.

_Harry, I honestly, truly, really like you, very much.  
-Louis_

Harry looks up, his brows pushed together in confusion.

“What do you think?” Louis asks, his cheeks brightening to a dusty pink  
.  
“Well,” Harry begins, head still reeling in an attempt to process what just happened. “I think that the delivery could use some stylistic work, but the message is still in tact.”

Louis raises his eyebrows, asking for elaboration. 

Harry takes a deep breath. “Did you drive here today?” 

Louis shakes his head and replies, “I got a ride today. My mom had to borrow my car while hers is in the shop.”

Harry smiles. “Perfect. Do you want to come somewhere with me?”

Louis nods his head, smiling and breathing a little laugh. “I would love to.”

//

They’ve been driving for a few hours, having made more than a couple stops along the way to get food, or gas, or use the restroom, when they arrive at their destination, just after dark.

“Harry, why are we at the House of Blues? Are you aware that it’s been closed down for months now?”

Harry smirks and responds, “That’s why we’re here. Let’s go.” 

They both get out of the car, Louis following Harry around the back of the building and up a rickety flight of stairs. “Harry what on earth are we doing?” Louis hisses.

“Just wait a second,” Harry says as they reach a door at the top of the stairs. He opens the door and steps inside, looking over his shoulder as a silent invitation for Louis to follow him.

“Care to explain?” Louis asks in disbelief.

“They haven’t bothered to lock that door since they closed this place down,” Harry offers, as though that answers anything. 

“Okay?” 

Louis follows Harry down through the kitchen, lead only by the glow of the flashlight on his phone. 

They weave through a series of graffitied hallways, until they finally step out onto the stage.

“Welcome to the House of Blues, Louis.”

The view from the stage is breathtaking, and it surprises Harry every single time, so look up onto the balcony, or back into the bar, and imagine the feeling of performing on this stage, the feeling of invincibility.

“Harry, this is incredible. How did you know about this?”

“A couple friends and I were down here at the end of summer, just after it closed. We were just fucking around when we found that door. I came back on my own a couple weeks later and it was still unlocked. I’ve been coming here a few times a month since then, when I need to clear my head. It’s my place, really.”

Louis looks over at Harry in the darkness. “Who did you come with?”

“Just a few guys I met a few years ago at this summer writing program. I don’t get to see them often ‘cause they live near San Diego, but they’re my best friends.”

“And,” Louis begins, “why did you bring me here?”

“I don’t know,” Harry sighs. “You’re important to me.”

“I am?” Louis asks.

Harry laughs, a genuine, full body laugh. “Yeah, Louis, you are. I’ve liked you, probably since the day you moved in. I have journal entries from when I was nine, talking about how much I want to get to know you. I have journal entries from last week, waxing poetic about how I was to kiss every dip and contour of your face. You are so important to me. Sometimes I don’t even know how to put it into words.”

Harry sits down on the stage, dangling his legs off the edge. “Didn’t you know?”

Louis joins him on the edge of the stage, sitting close enough that their shoulders brush. “No, I really didn’t.”

Harry huffs a breathy little laugh. “Wow.”

“I, um, I’m really sorry about what happened on Saturday,” Louis says. “I know that hurt you, and it was a dick thing to do, and I’m sorry.”

Harry turns to look at Louis’ profile. “I forgive that. We don’t have to dwell on it.”

They sit in silence for a few more moment before Harry says, “You know, they haven’t cleaned out the kitchen or the bar yet. Remind me to pick up another bottle of fireball before we go.”

Louis laughs his beautiful laugh, and it echoes throughout the theater. “Harry Styles, I’ve been underestimating you all these years.”

“Yeah, you have,” Harry says.

“I think I realized a couple weeks ago just how much I like you,” Louis says. “We were sitting at your kitchen table and you were talking about Stephen King. You were talking about what he says about the pace of writing, and you were saying all these things that didn’t make much sense to me at all, but you were so in your element, so happy. You just kept talking about Stephen King. You were probably saying useful things, but I have a bit of a one-track mind, and all I could think about was how beautiful you are when you talk about your passions.”

Harry stares at him, breathless. He feels suspended in midair, like falling in slow motion.

Louis turns so that he and Harry are face to face. “Harry?” Louis asks. “Can I kiss you? For real this time?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, leaning in, “yeah you can.”

Louis brings their lips together soft and slow, wrapping his arm around Harry, taking handfuls of his sweater as they kiss. 

They part, smiling. “Harry?” Louis asks, again.

“Yes?” Harry asks, smile growing wider by the minute.

“Can I take you out, sometime? Right now, perchance?”

Harry giggles and nods his head. “I know this great restaurant on Santa Monica, it’s like a five minute drive.

Louis leans his forehead against Harry’s and whispers, “Perfect.”

//

_one year later_

Harry has just finished corralling his roommate out of their dorm when he gets an incoming call from Louis.

“Hey there, little scientist. Build any airplanes today?” Harry asks as he answers the phone.

He hears Louis’ grainy laugh through the speaker as he responds, “Not today. Have you written any novels lately?”

“A fair few,” Harry responds. 

“I’m here now,” Louis says. “I’ll be up in your room in just a minute. 

“Okay, I’ll be here,” Harry says, and hangs up the phone. 

Not even a minute later, there is a knock on Harry’s door. He opens up, and Louis is there looking beautiful in a Caltech sweatshirt and jeans.

Harry has an internal loop, saying _he is so gorgeous._

They pull each other in for a long overdue kiss, and as they part ways, Louis holds up his little overnight bag and says, “I brought the fireball.”

Harry brings him inside and they spend the night talking about their past, present, and future, and it is all Harry can do to marvel at how they have become so ingrained in each other, like permanent fixtures in each other’s lives.

When they wake in the morning, they’re tangled around each other and the sun is shining through the window, illuminating Louis’ face. Harry kisses every dip and contour of his face, starting with his eyelids, and ending with his lips. He fell in love through a bedroom window, and right now, in the early morning light, he falls once more.

**Author's Note:**

> i can't write endings !!! thank you so much for reading !! and to my recipient: thanks so much for letting me write for you !!


End file.
